Cogs in the Machine
by Marauder and The Q
Summary: In the interest of his job and the teenagers involved, as drug counselor at a psych facility, Steve tried a new approach. Could a little honesty really save them all?
1. Prologue

**A/N: **This is a repost. I edited Pony out of this so as to better fit it with _Back Home Again_, by IAmOnlyMe, with which it is connected. You won't be disappointed if you read her story, so I strongly suggest that you do. Certain situations or characters, even just referenced ones, belong to IAmOnlyMe.**

* * *

Disclaimer:** No such place as Clearview (the facility used as a background in subsequent chapters) exists as far as I am aware. (If it does, then it's not the one I'm using.) I don't feel comfortable writing about a real psych facility, mostly because they all have their own specific rules and procedures. By creating my own, I now have a reasonably versatile setting to work with. 

Also, I do not own The Outsiders. Thanks go to S.E. Hinton for generously loaning out her characters**

* * *

Prologue**

* * *

Stepping out of the Tulsa International Airport with a duffel bag slung over his stiff shoulders, a limp in his step, and a thoughtful frown on his weary face, he quietly embraced home. _Home—_where the sun was bright but the wind blew and there was not a jungle of which to speak. Where the only other people in the vicinity were not dressed alike in uniforms and fatigues. Where he was his own person, not answering to the bark of orders, but simply to the call of his feet, carrying him wherever they decided.

Where Steve Randle felt as alone as ever.

The only other person that would have understood—understood how _different_ he had become; how he had been changed by knowing and seeing and _doing_ things; understood on a different level entirely than even the best he could hope to expect from his friends and certainly more than his father—was gone. Gone, just like that. Gone in an ambush that had wounded and maimed and killed, and even seen to the imprisoning of combat soldiers in places such as Hanoi. Steve had narrowly escaped one of those grisly fates, retreating with Sodapop Curtis carried tightly in his tired, heavy arms, but Soda had barely lived more than a day and Steve was not permitted to stay with him by his side. The last thing Steve ever heard escape from Soda's lips, turned up at the corners in a lopsided and terrified and masking smile, was a pained curse, preceded by, "I promised h-him. Steve, tell 'im I didn't mean to. I couldn't help it. Tell...tell him I tried to keep my promise..." Nodding quickly, silently, Steve's hands had hovered above Soda's bleeding chest, unable to touch him for fear of injuring him further, until they finally rested on his arm, sliding down to grip his dirty, limp hand. The dust off came and that was the last Steve ever saw of Soda in the waking realm.

And even though that was behind Steve as he walked briskly down the Tulsa street in his uniform, the sun beating down on his back and the wind blowing his hair from his cold, hard eyes, the sound of the wind and the cars on the street and the people in those cars was lost on Steve's ears—he was drowning in the sound of Soda's voice.

He realized, though, with dawning apprehension, that he didn't really want to get where he was going. He slowed his brisk pace to little more than a charitable shuffle.

_Where am I headed?_ he wondered. _Why don't I wanna be there, wherever it is? What's the hell is wrong with me?_

Where was home? Was it the house in which he had officially lived for eighteen years, but would very soon be moving out of? Was it the house in which he had unofficially lived for just as long? Was any of this home? Had home changed?

_No_, he decided, _it was me._

But that couldn't be helped.

He had always been aware, often glancing over his shoulders several times as he walked, but his awareness had reached new heights. Every twig snapping caught his attention. Every sinister looking character was a possible threat—some were disguised, meaning to ensnare him just as they had in the depths of a hot, muddy jungle. The fresh air seemed so strong and foreign in his nostrils. Even the gentle flapping of his jacket was not lost on his senses—the way it moved when dry, swaying ever so slightly, versus the clammy feeling of clothes sticking to his body. He remembered the general consensus amongst the men as being that they would never feel properly dry and clean again.

Until Steve looked up at the small building in front of him, his aimless mind not in sync with his wandering feet, he still was not sure where he felt most comfortable. Until the large, dirty, slightly tilted letters of the DX sign entered his line of vision, Steve was beginning to believe that such a place was nonexistent.

Hesitantly, he crossed the asphalt, walking closer and closer to the entrance.

_Almost ... almost there ..._

Steve's feet stopped so quickly that the rest of his body barely caught up, and he swayed until he regained his balance. What if it was different? Could he handle that disappointment just yet? Was he ready?

No, he wasn't.

He turned around and sighed, feeling a certain helpless frustration that he was beginning to know so well creep up his back, inching closer toward his face, where a dull flush was starting to grow.

"Coward," he growled quietly, his pace quickening as he walked toward the only other place he had considered in his quest to find "home"—the Curtis residence.

Before he had finished mentally calling himself every name in the book—wuss, loser, et cetera—he reached the house and ran up the front steps, his feet pounding hard against the boards of the porch. He inhaled deeply as he raised his fist to knock on the door, then realized, with mingled shock and horror, that it was the first time he could remember doing so. He tried to force his hand to grasp the doorknob, turn it, but he couldn't, and so he knocked anyway.

Darrel Curtis answered the door, looking very tired, and blinked several times before he reached out his hand and pulled Steve inside, smiling.

"You stopped writing," he said accusingly. "We thought you were dead."

"I'm not," Steve replied awkwardly, shifting on his feet under Darry's intense gaze.

Even as relieved as was Darry was that _one_ of them had come back—versus half, or none—they both knew that, though Darry had actually prayed several nights for both, when push came to shove, Steve took a backseat to Soda.

Steve decided to acknowledge this.

"Look, I know I wasn't what you were hoping—"

"Don't be silly, Steve," Darry said quickly, and the subject was dropped.

"Where're Two-Bit and Pony?" Steve asked, sounding wholly uninterested as he viewed the half open box on the kitchen table.

Darry sat down at the table, motioning for Steve to do the same—which he did, eventually—and answered. "Two-Bit hasn't been around for a few days, since _that_ came"—he nodded towards the box—"and Pony is… Well, that's hard to say."

Steve, feeling the need to say something, anything, _something_, said simply, "Oh." After a moment or so, however, Steve realized what Darry had said. "Wait, what?"

"Pony took off. Haven't seen him in a while."

"Oh. Alright."

There was a time, they both knew, when they had understood each other when they could, and respected each other when they couldn't. One or the other always applied. There was a time when they had been close—when their whole outfit had been thick as thieves and completely in sync. That time had passed. Now, there was a terrible force separating them. Conversation was awkward. Everything was awkward. Neither man really knew the other.

Darry regretted every minute of it.

For a few minutes, neither said another word, until the front door slammed and Two-Bit's voice filled the house, saying, "I bet you missed me, Dar."

"Sure, Two-Bit. C'mere a sec."

"What's this ab—" Two-Bit stopped short as he entered the kitchen, and then was silent. "Holy Hell," Two-Bit finally said, leaping into the room and pulling Steve into a thoroughly un-masculine hug, ignoring the wall that had been built by what Steve knew and they didn't—never would, thank God. "When did you get here? When did you get back? Your tour was up months ago! What took you so long?"

"I got shot," Steve began to explain, and suddenly the room froze, silent—and Steve couldn't understand, because it was routine; just the way it was. He was alive, wasn't he? They couldn't even tell, could they? He cleared his throat and continued. "So I had to make a detour to Japan and rest a little while before they could ship me home."

"Uh, where?" Two-Bit asked nervously, visibly looking over his body as though he could see through his clothes and detect wounds. "Anythin' serious?"

Tonelessly, Steve told them, just as the doctor had told _him_, "In the leg, and in the abdomen, but that had a clear exit wound and it didn't damage any organs in its trajectory so it's healing up just fine. They both are. Just twinges a bit when it rains."

Two-Bit stared openmouthed at Steve. Darry looked troubled.

"You're okay?"

Steve nodded, that indifferent expression still about his features.

"What's that?" Steve point to the box, and Darry gestured for him to pick it up.

Steve studied the box carefully.

WAR DEPARTMENT

**PHILADELPHIA QUARTERMASTER DEPOT**

**2800 South 20th Street**

**Philadelphia 45, Pa.**

**---**

OFFICIAL BUSINESS

Inside of the box was another box, this one white. He lifted the cover from the box and set it down on the table, revealing a navy blue case, which read PURPLE HEART in gold lettering. Steve smirked and lifted the case, running his fingers over the letters. He saw that there was a medium sized card underneath the case, and he picked it up.

Beneath a seal of an eagle and a star were these words:

ARMY SERVICE FORCES

PHILADELPHIA QUARTERMASTER DEPOT

PHILADELPHIA, PA.

_It is an honor for me to forward this decoration which is being sent to you by direction of The Adjutant General of the Army_

ROLAND WALSH

BRIGADIER GENERAL, U.S.A.

COMMANDING

Steve placed the card back in the bottom of the box and opened the case. Inside was a heart shaped medal with a gold border, one and three eighth inches wide, containing a profile of George Washington. Above the profile was a small coat of arms, with three red stars and alternating red and white lines. Turning the medal over, Steve read:

FOR MILITARY MERIT

Sodapop Curtis

Steve slid the case back into the box and that box back into the shipping box, and looked at Darry expectantly.

"Did they come with it?" Steve asked softly, still looking at Darry, not unkindly.

"Yeah," he said.

Darry shoved his hand into his pocket, and pulled it out clutching a jingling chain.

Steve nodded, and Darry gratefully tucked Soda's dog tags back into his pocket.

"I never get why they send those," Steve noted, with a touch of amusement in his hoarse voice. "Especially posthumously. When you're dead, do you care?"

Darry tensed a little.

Steve said in a solemn, distracted voice, "He didn't mean to not come back, obviously—he wanted me to tell Pony that. He wanted me to tell him that he was sorry he broke his promise. That he really did try. It was just something he couldn't help … and neither could I … But I guess I ain't exactly in a position to _do_ that now, am I? Seems kind of cliche, now that I think about it. I never figured Soda would go with a cliche." He laughed bitterly, a slow, guttural sound, then said quietly, to himself, "I was kind of hoping I wouldn't have to have lied to him. Guy's gettin' wasted in front of you, you like the idea of bein' able to do something out of respect. But that's the end of that."

Once, Steve had been alive with energy and verve, but now, Two-Bit noticed with growing dismay, he looked tired—so tired he could rest for a hundred years and not be satisfied.

"You look sort o' peaky, Steve," Two-Bit said at last. "You sure you're alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. I think I'll just change and check out the city, the old haunts."

He stood from his chair, jerked his head toward the bathroom, and Darry nodded. As Steve disappeared into the bathroom, Darry and Two-Bit noticed how skinny he had become. He had always been lean, and he was still muscular—presumably from constantly lugging around all that heavy gear and equipment—but since he no longer slouched his frame seemed even thinner. He had definitely lost some weight.

The pipes rattled in rapid succesion and a crash was heard from the bathroom.

"You alright, Steve?" Darry asked quietly through the door.

Steve's muffled reply was a flustered, "Yes."

Darry walked back towards Two-Bit and muttered, "I don't think this just got any easier."

Two-Bit nodded, his eyes oddly stormy.

Steve, still in the bathroom, changing into some jeans and a tee shirt he had managed to find before he left—he would still have to gather his possessions from his father's house, though, if they were still there—fixedly watched the blood run from a shallow cut on his hand. He quickly disposed of the broken glass from the bottle he had knocked over.

No. Things had not gotten any easier upon Steve Randle's return to his life. His _real_ life, before the interruption, was gone, and so he prepared to settle in to Phase Three, where worlds collided.

* * *


	2. Chapter One

**A/N:** Chapter one is set in 2006, thirty-seven years after the prologue.

_--_

Steve Randle sat down in his hard, plastic chair, facing a semi-circle of identically sour and mutinous faces, and sighed. With the same indifferent, professional guise, Steve proceeded to say precisely what he had been trained to say, and had been saying for now thirty years, since he was twenty-seven years old and had taken up the position as drug counselor in the thirteen to eighteen-year-olds outpatient wing at Clearview (a pun in itself) Treatment Facility in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.

"Do you remember what we talked about last time?"

He was greeted with silence, however.

"Does anyone have anything they'd like to mention before we get started?"

More silence buzzed in his ears.

"How about if I were to give you all drug tests?" he asked testily. "How would those come out, huh? Done anything illegal lately?"

_Alright_, he thought, _maybe not so professional. But it's been at least a month and a half with some of these kids, and all they do is give me lip and say, "Oh, but you don't _understand_! You're so old, and you don't have any problems and all you do is sit there and tell us how fucked up we are and what'll happen if we don't 'get back on the right track'! You don't know us! You don't understand…" The hell I don't._

Some kids shook their heads and scoffed; others stared disbelievingly at the usually cool-headed counselor; one girl just wrung her hands.

"Katherine asked me this morning if we had discussed coping techniques, and motivations, and deep, cleansing breaths…" Steve glanced at a tall, skinny boy who was now shaking with silent laughter—_Matt, isn't it? Matt Palmer?—_and rolled his eyes. "It seems that we haven't actually bothered with deep, _cleansing_ breaths… and with good reason, right? You all know how to breathe?"

One girl laughed—_Ashley something?_—and Matt Palmer let out a chuckle, until a muscular boy—_that's got to be Ethan Yorke, the one Kath told me to watch out for_—glared at them both and they became quiet.

"Are we planning to get something done today?"

Nothin'.

"Anything?"

Nada.

"One Goddamn thing?"

A group gasp, but a theatrical one.

"You normally go out of your way to never shut up, but at the same time never answer my questions," Steve observed, "but now you're not even talking?" He gazed around the room, watching the set faces remain steadfast in their dislike. Why was he trying to reason with these kids? When had he sunk that low? "Oh, I get it. You're mad 'cause A.J. went back to inpatient and you think it's my fault. Well, you all _know_ why he went back, and he did that to himself. He was trying to push me, the cops, his parents—he had it coming. Maybe it'll do him some good to be back. Thinking about it, maybe it would do all of you some good…"

The false threats had no bearing, and they knew it. He was like that once, though, was he not? He reasoned it out to "kids are different these days." When he really considered it, however, he knew that he was just like them when he was their age…but he sometimes thought the difference was in the company he kept. To outsiders, he and his friends looked like a gang of hoodlums—scary JDs—but to each other they were the best of buddies. He sometimes wondered if these kids even had that.

"Fine," he said shortly. "You want to try some breathing?"

--

"Those kids are each Satan incarnate," Steve murmured as he watched all dozen of them scramble out of the building, most of them reaching into their pockets for cigarettes and lighters. The smoking didn't bother him—he still smoked on occasion, and he had started even younger than the youngest of them—but he had to admit that when he was their age—_when did that get to be so damn _long_ ago?—_he had found ways to have a good time without any drugs…except for the occasional bottle of beer, he supposed, although that occasion may have recurred more often had it not been for—

"Oh, Steven," Katherine O'Brien said cheerfully—the woman was always so damn perky! "In their own rights, they are _wonderful_ people. They just need a chance to reform from their misguided ways."

Steve snorted, thinking, _I was just like 'em, and I ain't no wonderful person, either…and when did she swallow the brochure?_

"Sure, Kath. Whatever you say." He picked up his small backpack, which contained some paperwork that he needed to look over and fill out, and headed out the door, past the scornful, disdainful, _sneering_ looks of his three-thirty to four-thirty group. _Thank God I only have them and that morning group on Fridays. I can go home…_ Some people wondered why he didn't carry a briefcase—they didn't get that that was _too_ professional; successful businessman personified was not a look that Steve was trying to suggest.

He was just about to open the door to his car when he spotted that Matt Palmer boy bent over the engine of a dirty red car.

Steve sighed, hitched his backpack higher on his shoulder, then walked over to Matt and tapped him on the arm. He jumped and hit his head on the hood, but stood up straight, watching Steve cautiously with his light brown eyes.

"You know anything about cars?"

"Well," Matt began, running a hand nervously through his dirty blonde hair. "No. I just wanted to look like I was doing something. It seems kind of dumb when you're pounding on the steering wheel and praying for the stupid thing to start." He shrugged, smiling at his feet.

Steve glanced at the engine, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. "For starters," he said, leaning over the car and tightening the cover on the oil, "try not to turn or yank anything when you're not sure what you're screwing with."

"Oh, right. I'll…remember that."

"Did you think it would start if you looked at it hard enough?" Steve cocked an eyebrow.

"Yeah, sort of… I was going to just go back inside in a few minutes and call someone." He frowned, thinking. "Hey, how do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"That thing with the eyebrow—one up, one down. I could never do that."

Steve smirked, then answered dismissively, "A friend of my did it so much the rest of us picked it up. You get used to it."

Matt stood awkwardly for the next five minutes as Steve tweaked and adjusted, until Steve told him to try the gas, and the car roared to life, as if by magic.

As he was shutting the hood, Steve noted, with some wistful amusement, that he had managed to smear oil and dirt all over his hands. The hood closed with a satisfying _'thunk_' and Steve studied the car more closely, realizing that it was an old Mustang.

"Man, s'been a while since I saw one o' these… What year is this thing?"

"'66. I saved up for a while and had my eye on a car, but when I finally had enough to get it, someone had bought it a day before, so my grandpa sold me his car for the same, said he didn't drive it anyway. It usually runs pretty well, even if it's really old and dirty and dented, but it's been acting up lately."

"Must be a nice grandpa," Steve said dryly, laughing without humor.

"Yeah. So…where'd you learn that? You acted…I dunno, like you just automatically knew exactly what you were doing, like it was natural…More natural than when you preach during group."

Steve looked at him sharply, and Matt almost backed up a step, but instead wrung his hands.

"I don't preach, 'cause preachers have audiences and I got no one to listen." Less harshly, but a bit more stiffly, Steve said, "I used to be a mechanic. You want the truth?"

Matt nodded carefully.

"Sometimes I wonder if that's what I should still be doing… You don't smoke, do you?"

"Oh, uh, no, it's…it's a dirty, bad habit. I don't smoke, sir."

Steve frowned. "That's too bad… I wanted to bum a cigarette."

Matt looked confused for a moment, then smiled and reached into his pocket. "Sorry, it's a habit…" He passed Steve a lighter, then a cigarette, and watched as Steve lit it and inhaled deeply, relaxing.

"Lying?" Steve asked casually.

"Yeah, but mostly I thought types like you don't like drugs and alcohol and, well, cigarettes."

"I don't," Steve said, "but I smoke anyway, and I drink sometimes."

"And the drugs?"

"No. Say, what's with 'types like me'?"

"Um…you know."

"No, I don't… Alright, I do. I just want to know why that's a bad thing."

"It's not…But people don't want to talk to some stranger that's gonna judge them and tell them they suck but try to help them anyway, and they're not gonna be honest because most of them are protecting someone."

"Are you?"

"What?" Matt shifted nervously.

"Are you protecting someone?"

Matt never answered, and so Steve changed the subject. "What makes you think I'm judging you?"

"'Cause it's your job, sir."

"So it's my job to not know a thing about you and categorize you anyway?"

"Yeah."

"It's my job to _help_ you, not piss you off… I can't really blame you, though. I would have done the same thing when I was your age. I _did_, actually." Steve smiled faintly.

"Sir, sorry, but teenagers were different in the fifties."

Steve laughed, the first genuinely amused laugh all day. "How old do you think I _am_?"

"Umm…Was I wrong?"

"I'm not even sixty," Steve protested. "It's the hair, right? It's not even mostly gray…"

"You just…seem older."

"I've had a lot of aging, lots of practice and experience. I understand more than you think I do. That's why I did this in the first place. And it gets harder every year."

"You really care what happens to us?"

"Maybe," Steve replied indifferently, shrugging. "I just want you to see that you can honestly get out of whatever funk you've been in, or you can die. Those are really your only options."

"No," Matt disagreed, shaking his head. "You're just trying to scare me now."

Steve took a long drag on his cigerette, shaking his head. "I've been _exactly_ where you are, and it doesn't get any easier if you just accept it. I've seen things you wouldn't ever dream of—I know what I'm talking about. I'll bet you've seen your share of shit, too, but that's not going to help you just 'cause you carry it around like a badge, an excuse. Get over it."

"Aren't you living the good life?" Matt scoffed. "This is just a weird hobby, right? To _help_ people, save them from themselves..." He snorted, watching the grass sway in the light breeze.

"Who the hell said that?" Steve asked incredulously. "Have you seen what I get paid? Good life, my ass."

"Well, there are reasons why we are the way we are, and maybe you should find out."

"I'm _trying_, but I can't help you if you automatically hate me. You don't know me any more than I know you." He tossed his cigarette butt to the asphalt and ground it beneath his foot, punctuating his point.

"Exactly. Maybe if you seemed human to them they wouldn't rag on you so much," Matt suggested earnestly.

"What do you want me to do? Bear my soul? It's not appropriate, and are you nuts?"

"Maybe you should just clear up all those wrong impressions everyone has of you—"

"Everyone?"

"And stop being so stiff."

Steve tensed, setting his jaw. He stared back at the large brick building, looking so welcoming, and remembered standing before it, on a day not unlike this one, thirty-five years before, thinking the exact opposite. "Fine. I will. But I expect you not to join in their fun and games. Do we have an understanding?"

"Yeah."

"Good… So I'll see you tomorrow."

Sighing, Matt extended his hand to Steve, who took it in his own, smearing the grease.

Steve began to reach into his pocket for a cloth to wipe his hands on, but then remembered that he hadn't carried around a grease rag since he worked at the DX. He smiled and dragged his hands along the length of his pants, glad that he had decided to wear dark ones today. After his hands were relatively clean, he reached into his pocket for his keys and entered his car, wondering what he had just done. That conversation had gone by so fast…

_So they think I'm an evil dictator who gets paid millions just to sit around and tell them they're worthless_, _huh? Wonder where they got an idea like that..._

On his way home, Steve made a detour to Darrel Curtis' house. It was a long detour, true—Darry still lived in Tulsa—but Steve liked to think that he could be impulsive when he felt like it—which was the point of impulsiveness anyway—just to avoid settling into a life of planned monotony. That was a life that he never imagined for himself. If anything, he had suspected he would still be working at the DX—or, more up to date, some other gas station/garage, since the DX had merged with another company.

Truthfully, he wasn't quite sure why he was visiting Darry, but he reasoned it up with the fact that he hadn't been to see him recently and he didn't want to lose touch.

Steve rolled down the window and let the cool, crisp air of September blow his hair out of his tired eyes. He sighed as he scanned the row of houses before him, picking out Darry's. It had been renovated almost beyond recognition, but he, like Darry and Two-Bit, could pinpoint exactly what was and wasn't new. Of course, that may just have been being a part of the process, as it was Darry that had done it. The neighborhood had been fixed up as well—new neighbors had moved in sometime in the nineties and had the money to. It was now relatively safe, what with a different class of people moving in—people who had no idea what conflicts originally rose from what side of town you lived on. Steve thought it was better that way.

Aside from the more modern house, Darry's life had changed in other ways. In his words, an empty house had taken some getting used to, but eventually he had adjusted—that much was evident in the six years he had spent living on his own after Pony had graduated. In 1972, however, he met an old flame from high school, Sally Collins, and they were married in 1976.

Steve was always sure that, had Darry had a daughter as opposed to his son, Darrel Shaynne III, he would have gone crazy. Shaynne was what they addressed him as, and he had been born in 1980. Having already practically raised his brothers, and being a man himself, Darry had grown adept at it, and was ready to take a more successful turn. A daughter would throw all of that out of whack, and Steve felt grateful for Darry's good fortune. He didn't deserve more exasperation.

Parking in front of the house, Steve got out of his car and walked slowly up the front steps, dragging his feet. He rapped his knuckles on the door and peaked over his shoulder, always feeling, whenever he was at this house, that he was being watched.

Darry answered the door not long after and greeted him easily. "Come in," he said readily. "You missed our last outing."

Steve nodded. Every Friday night, the remainder of the tight knit gang, now loose and drifted to the four winds, congregated and had dinner and talked, or sometimes varied their activities. That last time, Steve had made the mistake of wading deep into his thoughts and memories—he could not swim back out—and instead he had gone out and purchased a six-pack of beer, which he drank. He hadn't done something like that in so long he couldn't remember, and he never mentioned it to Darry, citing different reasons for missing their get-together.

Either way, Steve realized, it was good to see him.

"Yeah," Steve admitted distractedly, "there was an emergency and I couldn't get out of it in time." Sadly, he noted, it was the truth, in a sense.

Darry nodded understandingly and crossed his arms over his chest, his stance questioning.

"I, uh, wanted to talk to you," Steve offered, stuffing his hands into his pockets and shrugging.

Without missing a beat, Darry glanced over his shoulder and grabbed his jacket. "Sal, I'll be back in an hour."

"Alright," came her muffled reply from the other room.

"Hey, Sally," Steve called.

"Oh, is that you, Steve?"

"Yeah."

She came into the front room with a broom clutched in one hand, a dustpan in the other.

"I see you're hard at work," Steve joked.

"I am, in fact," she replied in a serious voice. "But it's nice to see you. You haven't been around in a while."

She reached out to hug him, and he allowed her to wrap her arms around his chest, seeing as she was shorter than him. They had always gotten along fine.

"Come back soon, Steve," she chided. "You wouldn't want Darry to get lonely, would you?"

Darry coughed and looked pointedly at her, and as Steve dubiously looked at her, he had a feeling that Darry had a very slim chance of getting lonely.

"Bye," Darry said quickly, pecking her on the cheek.

She waved and went back into the room from which she had come.

Darry donned his jacket and ushered Steve out the door.

_---_

"So you think you lost yourself?"

"Yeah," Steve confirmed. "I should never have forgotten to pretend they weren't egging me on."

"What's so wrong with trying a different approach?"

"Snapping at them?" Steve shook his head, scrunching up his nose in distaste. "That just means they've won."

"Why is that such a bad thing?" Darry sat down on a bench near the fountain in the middle of the park—they had walked, and this was where they had ended up. "Isn't that what you want?"

"What?"

"Well, don't you want them to beat whatever they're there to beat?" Darry shrugged and scratched his chin, watching the water in the fountain splash.

"Yeah, I do," Steve replied quickly. "Of course I do…"

"But you want it your way," Darry observed.

"…Maybe." Steve continued to pace around the fountain. "I just think I said some dumb things after."

"To that kid?"

"Yeah."

Sighing, Darry asked, "And why would you care what you said?"

"They think I'm out to get them, Darry," Steve said incredulously. "I'm not going to beg them to like me."

"You don't need them to like you, Steve. You just need them to trust you."

"_You_ want me to pour my soul out, too. Well, it ain't gonna happen. If you do that, you don't go back."

Darry shook his head. "No. I want you to identify with them. You've been such a private person for so long, maybe it'll even do you some good. You really haven't been yourself at all in years. So much about you changed, it's hard to remember that you and the hot-headed kid who called me Superdope are the same person." He chuckled. "Counsel each other."

"Why should I listen to you?"

"You came to me, Steve," he reminded. "You figure that one out.

"Besides, I wouldn't see why I should trust you, either, if I didn't think you knew what you were doing. Maybe they have a point."

"Maybe… Hey, thanks. I'm still not even sure what made me come." He paused, smiling. "Julie is coming down from Chicago the weekend after next to celebrate Abby's birthday, and make sure I actually get to see her. Andy and Nick might drop by."

"I'm still amazed that you ended up with a grandkid before the rest of us," Darry muttered, grinning. "Or even this…soon."

"Hey, it was the only good thing I got out of settling down," Steve explained. "Three kids and a granddaughter, and maybe a few other illegitimate grandkids, if one of Andy's ex-girlfriends can ever manage to convince him to take a paternity test… Living on the road, in his head, has its perks."

"No offense, buddy, but I'm glad Shaynne has a bit more sense."

"Don't remind me," Steve groaned. "At least he writes."

Darry nodded and laughed. "We sound old."

Steve cocked his head to the side, thinking. "Yeah," he said slowly, "I think we're getting there."

He felt closer to Darry right then than he had in a very long time—perhaps since he was a young teenager and had looked up to him.

"Is Eric going with them?" Darry wondered aloud.

Steve bristled—Darry knew he wasn't fond of his son-in-law, and he personally found it funny; after all, Eric was a good enough guy…to anyone but Steve.

"I think he managed to get some time off o' work," Steve mumbled contemptuously.

"You're going to need to get over that. In the end, you'll realize that he's not so bad."

Steve rolled his eyes and listened to the sloshing sound of the fountain, considering Darry's words.


End file.
